The Absence of Light
by Like A Dove
Summary: It's 1994 and Tate Langdon is on the precipice of a psychotic breakdown. That is, until he starts dreaming about a certain flower named girl. Tate/Violet. AU
1. one

_Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage_

_Then someone will say what is lost can never be saved._

—"Bullet With Butterfly Wings", The Smashing Pumpkins

* * *

><p>It's Tuesday April 12, 1994.<p>

He's aware of the date because one week ago Kurt Cobain killed himself.

Tate Langdon rolls out of bed, puts on a pair of jeans and sneakers, grabs his backpack and is out the front door without speaking a word.

* * *

><p>Westfield High is a place full of shit.<p>

Shit teachers, shit students, and shit knowledge.

He wonders why no one else can see what he sees, that this world is utterly fucked and that maybe it'd be better for everyone if they all just left it. Tate thinks that death cannot be any worse than this, because life is already a living hell.

He's sitting in the back of his American Lit class, next to some black hair dyed cunt who thinks that if she wears raccoon eyes and cut up hosiery then she must understand what it's like to be sad.

No one has any fucking clue.

Tate is beginning to think that Cobain had the right idea.

* * *

><p>After school Tate swings by Matt's apartment.<p>

Matt is Tate's dealer.

The apartment reeks of weed and Tate fidgets by the front door as Matt rummages through his bedroom.

A moment later Matt walks out and hands Tate a bag. "It's good shit," the dealer says. He looks at Tate's shoulder, refusing to look him in the eye.

A lot of people think that Tate is creepy looking. Sometimes his dark brown eyes look black against his pale skin and dirty blonde hair, and it freaks people out. Tate doesn't mind. It's actually one of the few things about his appearance that he actually likes.

Tate nods, rolls the bag up and sticks it into his front pocket. "Thanks," he says. Then he leaves.

* * *

><p>When Constance found out that Tate had been cutting himself she was <em>pissed.<em>

And not over the fact that Tate had been self-harming. Of course not.

She was mad that he'd mauled his arm.

"You'll have scars forever now. I hope you're happy," she had snapped in disgust. Then she'd thrown his arm back to him, smacked him upside the head and left his room, slamming the door behind her.

Tate has been more careful about his cutting since then.

He locks the door of the bathroom, as he always does, and turns on the shower. When it's hot enough he hops in and moves to the back, away from the shower head.

He slices the blade along his inner thigh. He doesn't wince, because the pain is the goal.

He watches the blood run down his leg and then swirl down the drain.

* * *

><p>He's recruited into helping Constance make dinner.<p>

He's chopping tomatoes, and Constance moves into his peripheral vision, then she's beside his shoulder.

It'd be too easy. All he'd have to do is turn his body, thrust his arm forward and then _push_.

Then the knife would be sticking out of Constance's stomach and she'd bleed to death right here on her on kitchen floor.

Tate thinks that she'd deserve it after what she did.

Instead he finishes with the tomatoes, rinses the knife off and leaves it in the sink.

* * *

><p>He knows it's a dream immediately.<p>

He's never been in this room before. There's dark paint on the walls, along with a chalkboard and some creepy but cool pictures. The curtains are open, so sunlight pours into the room.

But then Tate reasons that he _can't _be dreaming, because the human mind doesn't create the people you see in your dreams, it just echoes what it sees in the waking world.

And Tate is pretty he's never seen _her _before.

She's staring at him. "Who the fuck are you?" she says from atop her bed. He notices her clothes; she's wearing some baggy sweater, tights, and sneakers that are similar to his own.

Instead of answering her he gets up to inspect the room he's in. "Cool poster," he says, gesturing to a picture of a skull.

"Thanks." There's a pause. "I'm dreaming."

"Yeah?"

"This is my room but there aren't any boxes."

He looks back over at her. She's standing in the middle of the room now, surveying the clean floors. "I'm moving in less than a week. There should be boxes everywhere."

"Where are you moving to?"

"L.A. _Why_ are you in my dream?" she asks again, frowning.

Tate shrugs. "Why are you in _mine?_"

The corner of her mouth tilts up. "I don't like sharing my dreams with people." Then she shrugs. "It doesn't matter. I never remember my dreams anyway."

Tate refrains from mentioning that he always remembers his dreams. He usually kills people in them.

Tate hopes he doesn't kill this girl, though. It'd be a waste of a dream. It'd be a waste of _her_.

He continues walking around her room. He finds a hat and immediately puts it on his head then studies himself in the mirror.

"What's your name?" the girl asks.

"Tate," he answers easily. He turns to her and gestures to his head. She rolls her eyes. "What's yours?"

"Violet."

"Like the flower?"

She grunts in response, and then begins to move about the room, opening drawers and searching through them.

"What're you looking for?"

"My lighter."

"You can smoke in dreams?"

"You can in mine."

This makes him smile.

She eventually finds it and lights up. Tate inhales. He quickly decides that the smell of a freshly lit cigarette fits her.

She moves to her dresser, fiddling with some box shaped thingy. She puts in on top of some speakers, and then scrolls her thumb over it. Music Tate doesn't recognize comes blaring out.

He walks over to her chalkboard and writes VIOLENT in big, bold letters.

* * *

><p>He wakes up the next morning and remembers the dream.<p>

He rolls out of bed, puts on his jeans and sneakers, grabs his backpack and is out the door without muttering a word.

He's never had a reoccurring dream before, but a part of him hopes that last night was the first of many.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

**The point of this story (aside from writing Tate/Violet goodness) is to attempt to salvage Tate's character since, in my opinion, the Tate we meet in the very first episode is unsalvageable. I have several endings in mind, so I guess we'll just have to see how this goes.**

**Anyway, hope everyone enjoyed this first installment. Make sure to review. I like reviews ;)**


	2. two

_Those who are dead are not dead, they're just living in my head_

_And since I fell for that spell, I am living there as well._

—"42", Coldplay

* * *

><p>They put Tate on meds four months ago because he was "seeing things".<p>

Tate has always known that there is something wrong with this house. He knew it back when he was little.

Thing is, it's one thing when you're a kid claiming that you've seen monsters in the attic, but it's a whole different story when you're practically an adult claiming the same thing.

Tate's meds make his fingers shake and his head feel slow.

And they don't work either, because he still sees the nice lady with the bullet hole in the back of her head walking about the house.

* * *

><p>He's in the library, reading a book about turtles.<p>

Tate finds certain animals fascinating.

Birds can fly away when things get too crazy, and turtles get to crawl into their own dark, secluded space. Tate wishes he had a place to crawl away to, a place that would make him feel safe.

Someone sits down across from him. Tate freezes and looks up.

He's not used to people coming up and talking to him. It was different a couple of years ago, when he was running track, before Constance got together with Larry and before he had moved back into the Murder House.

But things change.

It's his old track coach, Coach Beckett.

Tate closes his book about turtles and stares at him.

"I heard about your brother," Coach says quietly.

Tate's hand makes a fist on top of the table.

"I know that losing a sibling must be hard," Coach continues. "You doin' alright?"

Tate nearly laughs, but forces his face to stay smooth. He shrugs one shoulder.

Coach sighs. "You should come back to the team, Langdon."

Tate gets up from the table, grabs his backpack, and leaves the library.

* * *

><p>His eyes are closed. He's lying on top of his bed with his headphones on, drumming his fingers against his CD player that's lying on top of his stomach.<p>

Someone nudges his shoulder and his eyes pop open.

Constance is standing over him, frowning. Despite all the "others" he sees walking around this house, Tate's pretty sure that this woman is still the scariest thing residing in it.

Tate pauses his music. "What?"

"We're going out to the movies and then dinner, as a _family._" Her eyes narrow. "Be dressed and downstairs in fifteen minutes."

Tate glares up at her before turning his music on again. When Constance closes the door behind her he gets up and locks it. Then he flops back down onto his bed.

* * *

><p>He waits an hour to make sure that they're gone. He pulls his headphones off but leaves them around his neck. He opens up one of his drawers and pulls out a bag of weed, his piece, a pair of scissors, and a lighter.<p>

He takes his sweet time packing a bowl, and takes advantage of being alone in the house by turning the volume on his stereo up to full blast.

He makes sure to blow all the smoke out of his window.

Fifteen minutes later he's pulling random shit out of the fridge in order to make an immaculate sandwich.

Then he's back upstairs in his bedroom, television on. He settles on the news because why not get informed while you're stoned?

He hears snapping noises outside his bedroom door along with the footsteps of people who aren't really there.

Except Tate is sure that they _are_.

He passes out on his bed to the flicker of the television.

* * *

><p>He's not even surprised when he finds himself in her room again.<p>

She doesn't look too surprised either.

"Oh look, it's you again," she says in a bored tone, but there's a smirk on her lips.

Tate spent most of the last dream looking around her room, so tonight he thinks he'll just study her instead.

She's pretty. That much is easy to notice. Her hair is shiny and light brown, and the clothes that she's wearing are similar to those from last night: tights, a baggy sweater, and sneakers.

Tate thinks that his favorite part about her appearance is the fierce expression on her face. She stares right back at him as he studies her, and there's a challenge in her gaze. It's as if she's daring him to point out some of her flaws.

There aren't any to point out, of course.

"See something you like?" she finally says. She frowns when he doesn't say anything before crossing her arms over her chest and lying down on her bed.

Tate understands, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he's made her up. This is his dream, so logically speaking she's just a figment of his imagination. She doesn't exist.

He has to congratulate his brain on conjuring up something as complex as her. Figuring her out should be interesting.

He lies down in the bed next to her. Their elbows touch.

He realizes that this would probably be considered an invasion of her personal space, but he doesn't see why that even matters. This _is _a dream.

Of course.

She still doesn't say anything.

Tate resists the urge to fidget right there next to her. He wants to get to know her, see if she likes the same things that he does. She doesn't _seem _like a poser, but he wants—

No, he corrects himself. She definitely isn't a poser or a try hard. She's not fake in any way. He _knows_ this.

He asks the first thing that pops into his mind. "What's your favorite movie?"

He immediately winces. The question sounds lame coming out of his mouth.

She remains quiet, so he takes a risk and glances over at her. He can tell by the profile of her face that's she's thinking over her answer.

He looks back at the ceiling. He can wait. Tate's patience can be endless for certain situations.

Finally she pulls in a breath. "I guess it'd have to be Donnie Darko."

Tate's eyebrows furrow. He's never heard of that before. He'll have to go out and rent the video tomorrow.

She sounds pensive as she continues. "It's just, no matter how many times I watch it, it never makes any fucking sense. And I guess that's what I like about it. It's insane, but it doesn't try to deny it."

Tate berates himself on never having seen this film. They could be discussing it. He could be getting to know her further.

She turns her head and prods him in the arm with her pinky finger. "You?"

"Psycho," he answers instantly.

"A classic," she says, and they both nod at the same time.

"It's weird watching that movie," Violet says thoughtfully. Tate almost closes his eyes. He likes listening to her voice. "The guy who played Norman Bates was kind of hot."

"Anthony Perkins."

"Sure."

Tate turns his head to watch her. Her hand is playing with a lock of her hair.

Her hand… Tate finds that he'd really, really like to hold it.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

**A big thank you to everyone who left a review for the last chapter! I hope you enjoyed this new installment!**

**Leave me your thoughts, pretty please? :D**


	3. three

_My boy builds coffins he makes them all day_

_But it's not just for work and it isn't for play_

_He's made one for himself, one for me too_

_One of these days he'll make one for you._

—"My Boy Builds Coffins", Florence + The Machine

* * *

><p>Tate jerks awake for a brief moment, realizes he still has about an hour until his alarm clock is set to go off, and falls back asleep.<p>

He doesn't dream of her this time; he dreams of _them_.

He kills them. He likes it.

Shooting them is obviously the easiest method, but Tate finds that he likes using a knife on them the best. There's something about the way he has to push the knife a little at first before it slides cleanly into their flesh. With a gun, all he has to do is aim and pull a trigger. With a knife there's more commitment involved.

Using a knife also brings him closer. As he stabs he quickly becomes coated with their blood. It's warm, wet, it splatters against his face and it stains his clothes, but he doesn't mind. Tate has always liked the color red.

The alarm goes off and Tate's eyes open. He rolls over and reaches to turn off the alarm clock, and as his hands come into view he thinks that they might still be covered with blood.

Tate sits up in his bed. After a moment the sleepiness fades away and he's fully alert, but he still remembers the dream. He doesn't consider it a nightmare.

* * *

><p>After school he goes to the video store to look for the movie that Violet had said was her favorite.<p>

He wanders to the _D _section first, doesn't find it. He checks the _Horror _section next, doesn't find it. Then _Suspense_, but he still doesn't find it. Eventually he scours the whole store in search of this motherfucking video that might not even _exist_ because it was recommended to him by a girl from his _dreams_.

This realization comes to him in the _Kid/Family _aisle. He frowns. He wonders why that wasn't the very first thought to occur to him. He could have saved himself a trip to the video store.

He still walks to the register in the front of the store and politely asks the employee if they have _Donnie Darko_ in stock.

The guy behind the register looks confused. "Come again?"

"Donnie Darko," Tate repeats, his right hand twisting into the fabric of his pants. He typically doesn't like to ask people for help.

The employee shakes his head. "Sorry man, but I've got this whole store memorized. There definitely isn't a movie out with that title. You sure you're not looking for a book or something?" The way he says it is slightly condescending, as if Tate is an idiot.

Tate imagines grabbing his head and bashing it against the countertop over and over again until his skull cracks open. Instead he shakes his head and walks out of the store.

* * *

><p>He walks into the house, slams the door shut behind him and is perfectly content to just walk right past Constance on the way to his room.<p>

"Tate, sweetheart—"

The way she speaks is sickeningly sweet, like a predator. "Fuck off," he snaps, some of his frustration and wariness leaking into his tone. "Cocksucker," he adds under his breath.

"I'm sorry. What did you just call me?" Her voice is like honey.

He pauses in his trek up to his room. Then he turns around and gives his mother a half smile. "Cocksucker. You're a cocksucker."

She slaps him. He was probably asking for it, but his cheek still stings.

When he finally makes it to his room he locks his door and briefly wonders if anyone would give a shit if he made a noose out of his bed sheets and proceeded to string himself up.

* * *

><p>"I'd care." Violet's voice is like honey, too. But Tate actually <em>likes <em>her voice.

They're in her room again and he finds himself confiding in her. It's not like she'll repeat his secrets to anyone. She isn't real.

There's a small coffin in the corner of the room. An infant sized coffin. Tate has decided not to mention it.

He shrugs one shoulder and goes back to memorizing every detail of her face. "I wouldn't do it, though," he says, noting the tone of comfort in his own voice. He wants to reassure this girl. "It's the coward's way out." He looks away from her and stares down at his clenched hands. "I'm not a coward."

"I don't know. I've thought about it."

He immediately looks back up at her and narrows his eyes. He doesn't like where the conversation is going.

"It's human nature," she continues. "Everybody wonders about offing themselves occasionally. Whether they genuinely want to die or whether they just want to think about how everyone would react to their death, everyone does it." She picks at a loose thread in her sweater.

Tate quickly changes the subject. Violet and suicide…the thought makes him shudder. "I couldn't find that movie you were talking about."

Her eyebrows furrow in concentration; she looks tired, Tate notices. Then she remembers what he's referencing and she frowns. "Just look it up online. Netflix it or something."

"What's Netflix?"

The look she shoots him is so disbelieving that he squirms a little bit in discomfort. He doesn't like not being able to keep up with her.

"Are you shitting me?" And now she's laughing at him.

"No," he snaps. "I went to the video store today and asked the asshole at the counter and everything. _Donnie Darko _doesn't exist."

He remembers then that _Violet _doesn't exist either. But he'd rather not dwell on those thoughts.

She rolls her eyes. "Jake Gyllenhaal. Drew Barrymore. Jena Malone. I think it came out in '01?"

"2001? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"It came out in 2001." She curls her lip at him. "What's with you?"

"That's seven years from now."

"Try it was ten years ago?"

They've both gotten up by the floor and are facing each other. Her stance is challenging; Tate's is defensive.

"Are you from…" she does the math in her head. "1994? Your clothes make sense now." She turns her head and stares at the baby coffin in the corner. "I'm more fucked then I thought," she mumbles to herself. "Dreaming about a guy from the 90's…"

"I'm from the past and you're from the future." Suddenly it all doesn't seem that weird. It doesn't even matter. Why would it matter? These are just dreams. The dream state is distorting everything.

"I should ask you who wins the next few Superbowls. I'll bet on the winning teams and make a shit ton of money."

She doesn't smile at his joke and he shifts his weight between his feet anxiously.

"Whatever," she grumbles and then climbs up on her bed.

He sits down next to her. Some time passes and after awhile the fact that the two of them are from different decades seems much less bothersome.

"Why are you so tired?" he asks out of concern.

She nods towards the coffin. "Morbid baby funeral. Mom had a brutal miscarriage seven months into her pregnancy. It was all sad and shit." She frowns down at her lap. "That happened awhile go. But a bunch of shit has gone down since. I feel like I should care more than I do. My little sister died, after all."

Tate understands. He's always found it hard to care himself, even about things he knows he _should _care about.

"That probably makes me a shit person," Violet says. She lifts her sleeve and rubs her fingertips along her cutting marks absentmindedly.

Interesting. Violet never told him that she cuts herself, but he feels as if he already knew.

He gently takes her arm and presses his lips against her mutilated forearm.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

Sorry that it's been so long since the last update! I sort of got swept up in Hunger Games fever (in fact, I'm still suffering from it, heh).

Anyway, hope everyone liked this installment and please remember to leave a review!


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